


Chance We Not, We Chance Too Much

by D20Owlbear, itwasadarkandstormynight, orderlyhouse, Sev Dragomire (seventhe), sevdrag (seventhe), smolalienbee, under_a_linden_tree



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Clothing Porn, Demons are beholden to kabbalistic exorcisms, M/M, Other, The whole fic is that they think they can't touch, Touching through clothing, aka a fic in which we describe way too much clothing as a repressed outlet for feelings, allergies probably, and also cause they're dumb and all their braincells go straight to the yearning and pining, because of extenuating circumstances, completely and utterly fucking gay ok, its the fic that actually brought this feral fuckshow together, kiss through a veil, kissing each other's lipstick stains, pine forest, so much pine it'll make ya sneeze and your eyes water, someone has promised art for this if that's ur jam, tenderly adjusting clothing and pressing folds for one another, the one explicit chapter that made the rating go up has happened, tokens and favors as stand ins for their love, various gender presentations throughout the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/itwasadarkandstormynight/pseuds/itwasadarkandstormynight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlyhouse/pseuds/orderlyhouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/Sev%20Dragomire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolalienbee/pseuds/smolalienbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley cannot touch. The divinity beneath Aziraphale's skin is too much for the demon underneath Crowley's, and forces it out from the corporation he inhabits, not dead so much as exorcised. It's fraught and unpleasant and there's no telling how long Hell might keep him at any given point. Days, years, decades?No, it's better not to chance it. Unless...[2 simultaneous 5 + 1 from alternating POV of Aziraphale and Crowley from their first touch in 3004 BC to their second in 1941 CE, and all the almost-touches and workarounds between.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 63
Collections: FFS (Feral Fandom Saturdays)





	1. Last Call of a Shofar

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you feral server for going on this journey!! Thank you also to [Idanit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit) for helping with ideas and planning!
> 
> In which this fic boils down to: TFW you want to write a 5+1 with the lads but have too many ideas so u just double it anyway

**Prologue: 3004 BCE**

Crawly was a stowaway. A properly demonic thing to do, especially on the ark, he was pretty sure. He was a little _less_ sure that all the kids he’d brought in quite literally under his wings was as demonic. But! It was thwarting God’s plan? That had to count for something…

“Oh, _Crawly_ ,” a voice intoned softly from the doorway, startling the demon into mantling his wings like a bird over prey, to keep the children from the Angel-of-the-Lord’s gaze. Crawly snarled and hissed with his teeth bared to cover his fear. Aziraphale was a cherub, and no matter how soft he looked or how gentle he seemed to _want_ to be, there was no going against one’s nature, Crawly learnt that the hard way.

Aziraphale raised his palms up and Crawly flinched, expecting to be smitten and his stomach fell to his feet in entirely-demonic worry for the children– his plans falling through. But nothing happened, Aziraphale stood still with no weapon in hand and no tell-tale glow of holy, righteous power.

“I won’t harm you, Crawly,” The angel spake, and the words rang with a certain sort of truth in the ether between them. In reply, his wings drooped and the faces of dusty, muddy children with hay in their hair poked out from behind onyx feathers. “Or them.” Aziraphale tacked on after a surprised second.

“Fine, _angel_ , you’d better not.” Crawly folded his wings back and let them melt away. He was wary, he’d probably always be of this creature who hid all sorts of surprises and pitfalls behind a smooth facade of duty and loyalty to a master who only cared enough to punish. The _or else_ was left implied, even if Crawly wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to do anything to stop a cherub.

But then Aziraphale pulled down some of the firmament and manifested it into manna in a basket in the corner, and a bit of twist bolstered the celestial magics so that the basket would remain just as full as it was now no matter how much was taken from it. A little more clever thinking and working the wording of his miracles so that they logged _correctly_ in Heaven’s records and there was a long table close to the ground to sit and eat at as well as a rush of water off to the side to collect clean water and dispose of waste just as neatly. In another couple of millennia, he’d think the Romans very clever for thinking up a similar system.

Crawly stood numbly, watching as the angel worked his miracles and the children stopped shivering in fear with the aura of peace he projected, and with food in their bellies they soon fell asleep. It had been a harrowing day, after all. It certainly left Crawly feeling drained and hollowed out, though he was very careful to sidestep any examination of why exactly he felt that way. After all the children turned to slumber, Aziraphale simply nodded at Crawly, mimed locking his lips shut with a key, and then walked away.

If he were lucky, Crawly thought to himself, he wouldn’t see hide nor hair of the angel until all of this was well over.

He wasn’t so lucky, of course.

Aziraphale visited every day, or at least what Crawly and the children assumed was daily. He brought by a bucket or two that “wouldn’t be noticed, dear boy,” and helped wash the younger ones, giving them lengths of perpetually heated fabric for blankets and to dry off in. And, as long as Crawly continued to work his “notice-me-not” magic pulled from Hell, Aziraphale was free to use his Heaven-sent blessings and miracles to attend to the health, happiness, and comfort of all creatures aboard the ark.

“Why?” Crawly asked quietly on Aziraphale’s ninetieth visit, a few of the older kids teaching the younger ones simple games and told stories about what it was like outside of the single stable they crammed into, even if it had been demonically expanded on the inside.

“Why what, old chap?” Aziraphale replied, just as softly, sitting beside Crawly. Careful, just as always, not to touch. No one had seen an angel and demon touch, but it was generally regarded as a bad idea. Just common sense that it would end in discorporation, or worse.

“Why’re you helping? Isn’t your lot supposed to just be about Noah’s family? Shem’s a bit of an idiot, needs all the help he can get. Wife’s smart as a whip though…” Crawly rambled, second-guessing whatever courage screwed up in him to finally ask what’d been on his mind the whole time.

“Because I can,” Aziraphale said simply, and Crawly watched the small smile burgeon on his lips, cutting through all of the ways the storm and rains outside the ship had continued on in his thoughts with whirlpools and rip currents and eddies that dragged him down under until he nearly drowned in his rushing thoughts.

“Oh.” And that was that, wasn’t it? With a tilt of his hand, Crawly produced a jug of frothy beer from a very small, personal dimension he liked to use for storage. Human-made, simply sealed, and stored a bit better than they might have been able to do. Originally, he’d been planning on drinking himself insensate for at least a week after setting the children off after everything was finished and done with.

“Beer?” Crawly offered, voice cracking. Aziraphale gave him a look that seemed to be searching for something and Crawly wasn’t sure he wanted that something to be found—or perhaps worse, not found—so he looked away, setting the jug between them beside two mugs that hadn’t been there before either. “Might as well return the _hospitality_ , can’t be giving angels excuses to break it and all…”

Aziraphale only hummed and nodded, picking up a cup, breaking the seal on the jug like it was nothing at all, and pouring them both plenty. “Very well, Crawly, very well. I suppose it would be best not to give a demon an excuse to break hospitality either.”

And with that, they proceeded to get sloshed. To be fair, the children were all more or less from the same villages, they took care of each other plenty and Crawly was little more than a glorified hand-clapping-game dispenser since Aziraphale had taken care of all the immediate needs that first day.

The more they drink, the more Crawly has to anchor his protections to the children and the stable itself so it doesn’t drop entirely, and the more he starts to feel… prickly. A bit like there’s pins and needles in his hands and feet and moving up to meet in his torso. So he drinks more, hoping to banish the feeling and Aziraphale drinks to match him.

In another hour, they’re leaning against each other and have found that a barrier of clothing between them means they can touch, almost, enough that there is nothing to fear as long as they’re careful. They keep their voices down so the small ones can nap in the corner.

“Because She hath set Her love upon me, therefore will I deliver Her: I will set Her on high, because She hath known my name. She shall call upon me, and I will answer Her: I will be with Her in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor Her. With long life will I satisfy Her, and shew Her my salvation! Ha!” Aziraphale cheered loudly, quickly quieting himself with a scolded look about him at Crawly’s raised eyebrow before they both burst into giggles.

“I told you I could recite it, even… under an influence not my own.” Aziraphale preened at his accomplishment. Crawly dared him to do it twice more. And so he did, with remarkable accuracy, though perhaps not so remarkable considering a cherub’s whole purpose was to praise Her holiness.

They giggled again and Crawly fell with a rock of the boat, his shoulder slipping from resting on Aziraphale’s and landing with his head in the angel’s lap. The two man-shaped creatures paused for a moment in their mirth before laughing again, quieting themselves when one of the older girls woke and shushed them. On instinct, Aziraphale touched Crawly’s hair, curling a lock of it around his finger.

When nothing happened—except for Crawly’s eyes closing as he sighed—he grew just a little bolder. An angel relaxed with a demon in his lap who, in turn, let himself grow pliant as his hair was pet.

 _Hair was alright too, then. But best not to test it to destruction,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. Testing anything to destruction was… rather unfair.

A few minutes later, or what were likely only minutes, a loud shofar sounded above them. A single floor away. Crawly nearly jumped out of his skin and his wings burst from his back in his drunken panic, nearly hitting Aziraphale in the face.

Aziraphale grasped at Crawly, intending to grab him by the shoulders to steady him, instead placed his palms flat on either side of his neck. The skin underneath Aziraphale’s palms was warm and tantalizing as a homely hearth after a long day out in the cold, and for a moment Crawly leaned into the touch and the presence of safety exuded by the angel. Crawly sighed long and low, from deep inside his chest. It rattled and sounded almost painful, like he was detaching from his ribs.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale whispered frantically, feeling suddenly sober in his worry, “Crawly, I’m so sorry, please don’t–” He couldn’t speak anymore as his gaze met Crawly’s, the demon’s eyes were bright with wetness and his lips parted as if to speak.

“Crawly, it’ll be fine, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, shutting his eyes tightly and pulling the demon into an embrace. He’d already done the damage and at least like this he could hold Crawly without touching his skin, tuck his face against his clothed shoulder, wrap his arms over the robes hiding his back. “I’ll take care of them, I promise, they’ll be perfect and healthy and I’ll help them sneak off after the animals when we get to land. I promise you that, Crawly.

It rang True in the ether, even though there was little between them, and Aziraphale felt Crawly nod against his chest. Seconds later the corporation fell limp entirely and Aziraphale knew there was no more Crawly in the vessel anymore.

It took him ten hours of near catatonia, cradling the body as he let his body sober up in the slow human way before he could force himself to stand. He carried the body to the deck of the ark and flew down to stand on the water before walking. The children would be fine, they were hidden with what was left of Crawly’s demonic wards and the human tendency not to notice anything out of place.

Perhaps bodies didn’t mean much to ethereal or occult beings made of soul and spirit and magics, but they’d been with humans for long enough to care. At least a little.

So Aziraphale buried Crawly at sea, with no land in easy traveling distance, even with it in sight on the edge of the horizon. He estimated it’d take another two months to get there properly, to let the water recede enough to live there.

Hopefully, this mistake was only fatal in one way, hopefully he’d see Crawly again and he’d be able to tell him about all the children and how they grew up.

Hope, faith, belief. There were very thin lines between the three and Aziraphale wasn’t sure where this feeling landed, desperate and yearning and guilty as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most Jewish tradition and the Kabbalah, demons are not the ones to possess humans (it would be a _dybbuk_ ) theoretically getting rid of them would follow similar steps if they had any inclination to possess people (and since in GO it has been at least heavily insinuated that, like in Christian mythos, demons are known to possess humans it's not an entirely untoward conclusion to make).
> 
> If you would like to read a quick 'primer' of sorts (written by Elenor Margolis) of a conversation with Rabbi Winkler as well as a few book recommendations for further research, you can [do so here](https://eleanormargolis.substack.com/p/exorcism-schmexorcism-dybbuks-demons). I fully recommend it as it has a lot of great knowledge, places to look further, and a very well written and informative exchange between the author and Rabbi Winkler about the realities of exorcisms, how they became popular, and the cultures they're rooted in. (Content warning for mental illness, violence towards women mentions, though nothing is graphically described).
> 
> The steps of a Kabbalistic exorcism used here are as follows (Winkler, see below):  
> \- A minyan is present (Noah, his sons, and son-in-laws who are on the boat)  
> \- Aziraphale recites Psalms 91 (which would not yet have been written at this point, but "lead balloon" and all that)  
> \- A shofar is blown (though for this it is meant to be "blown in a certain way, with various notes and tones, in effect to "shatter the body" so that the possessing force will be shaken loose," which has been minorly handwaved)  
> \- "After it has been shaken loose, the rabbi begins to communicate with it and ask it questions such as why it is possessing the body of the possessed"  
> \- At this point there may be prayer and ceremony in order to enable the spirit to feel safe so that it can leave the body  
> \- _The Soul of the Matter_  
>  A Jewish-Kabbalistic Perspective on the Human Soul Before, During, and After "life" by Gershon Winkler
> 
> Sorry for the longness of this! But there's a bit in this chapter, in particular, that might be difficult to follow without a bit of the background knowledge <3 Everything else will be a lot more self-explanatory!


	2. Deliberate Dinner Company

**Chapter 1: ~500 BC**

“What do you mean there was a mistake?” Aziraphale said. “I was specifically invited, how can there be no room for me?”

The beleaguered servant who had just given Aziraphale the bad news, nervously scratched his neck. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not in charge of these things, I only know what they’ve told me...”

Aziraphale grumbled. “It’s rather important I be there, boy, so this simply will not do.” He sighed. “Is there not something that can be done? Surely there is some way I can attend the banquet, seeing as I _was_ invited.”

The servant swallowed nervously. “I– I– I shall go ask, sir. If you would wait here, I shall be back soon.” With that, he turned away, leaving Aziraphale behind.

“Having trouble?”

Aziraphale turned around. “Crowley! You could say that, yes. No room for me, they say, when they specifically invited me—you know, I’ve repeated it so many times, and yet no one seems to know it!”

“Wait, you were invited?” Crowley asked, incredulous.

“I do believe that is what I just said, yes. Why is that so surprising?”

“Well, uh, it’s– never mind, it’s nothing.” Crowley said, hastily.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

The moment was suddenly interrupted when the servant from before came running back. “You’re in luck, sir, there was a mix-up and, well, I don’t know all the details, but you are free to enter the house.” He spotted Crowley behind Aziraphale, who was pretending very hard to not be listening to the conversation. “Your friend is welcome to enter too, sir.”

“I’m supposed to be here,” Crowley said. “I’m a guest.”

“Oh– well, you are both free to enter, then,” the servant replied, and an exhausted tenor crept up in his voice.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said curtly, and walked inside. Crowley soon followed behind him.

They walked towards the banquet table. A lot of people were already there, and the dim susurrations of conversation could be heard all around them.

“What were you so concerned about, anyways?” Crowley asked, after a moment of (relative) silence. “I know you like food, angel, and you’re a big fan of wine, but they’re not exclusive to this party. And he throws these shindigs all the time. What’s so special about tonight?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Must you really ask that, Crowley? I could ask you the same thing, you know. It’s an assignment. I don’t know the details, they’re not for me to know. Today is significant, that’s all I know.”

“You as well?” Crowley said. “My, you’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?”

“As well?” Aziraphale repeated, slowly. “Oh, let me guess. The ever so gracious host of this evening, am I right?”

“However did you guess?” Crowley replied, deadpan.

“Just a hunch.”

It was an especially busy party. Now that he was inside, Aziraphale could see there was actually a lot of truth in that servant’s words.

While he was busy contemplating this, he suddenly felt like someone had fallen onto him.

(This was, in fact, because someone _had_ fallen onto him.)

In a split second, Aziraphale grabbed the person who’d lost their balance by the shoulders, and– “Crowley?!”

Oh _no_.

Aziraphale instantly stiffened in shock, waiting for Crowley to get discorporated right there and then.

It was a surprise to both him and Crowley when that didn’t happen.

It was then Aziraphale realised—he wasn’t actually touching Crowley truly, but his robes.

Nothing had happened, because they hadn’t _actually touched each other_. They _can_ touch each other so long as it’s through clothing.

Aziraphale was so relieved he nearly let go of Crowley, who had his eyes closed, a pained expression on his face, and his entire body tensed, seemingly still waiting to die.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, “we’re okay. _You’re_ okay. We didn’t touch, see?” He made sure Crowley was standing stable once more and he lifted his hands to emphasise his statement. “It was– I did grab your shoulders, but I never touched your skin, just your robes.”

“And that somehow _is_ okay?” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale sighed with relief. If he was this blasé, he clearly was okay. They both were. “I don’t make the rules, Crowley. But as you can see, we’re _both_ still here and both still alive, so it must be.”

“Well, that’s nice to know.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to reply but before he could, their conversation was interrupted by a servant announcing dinner was ready.

All the guests flooded into the dining hall towards the couches. Crowley and Aziraphale, in their distraction, didn’t notice the steady filling of seats until all but one couch was occupied.

“...I guess he was right about there being no room,” Aziraphale said, after a moment.

“You do know these can fit two people, right?” Crowley replied. “Unless you want to stand for the entire dinner–”

Aziraphale bristled like an angry songbird. “I'll thank you not! They’ll think I’m a servant next!”

“Not with that outfit they won’t.” Crowley grinned. He paused. “If you still want to eat, though, I suggest you go lie down.”

Aziraphale promptly and properly laid himself out on the couch, expecting Crowley to do the same. When he didn’t, Aziraphale frowned. “Are you not going to lie down with me, Crowley?”

Crowley mumbled something.

“You’ll have to speak up, Crowley, you _know_ I can’t understand what you’re saying when you talk like that.”

“We can’t, Aziraphale, our robes are too short.” Crowley repeated, somewhat forcefully.

Aziraphale blinked slowly. After a few seconds, he said, “Well, that’s an easy fix, isn’t it?” and immediately fashioned himself robes that reached to his ankles. “That should help.” He pat the couch. “Come, Crowley, we can’t have you standing the entire time either.”

“Can’t we?” Crowley muttered, but after miracling his own robes to be longer, he carefully arranged himself beside Aziraphale, their knees and hips closer than they'd ever dared before, even through the fabric of their robes. “I’m not drinking this wine, by the way.”

“Whyever not?”

“There’s cheese in it. ‘s not a good combination.”

Aziraphale grabbed a cup of wine from the table. "Ah, with grated cheese. I’ve had that before, when I was in Greece a few years ago. It’s really quite good.”

“I’m still not touching it.”

“I’ll drink for the both of us, then,” Aziraphale said, then fell silent.

There was enough noise and merriment to go around—the guests were chatting and eating, the musicians were playing a particularly lively piece—and yet the silence between him and Crowley was deafening.

“I can’t believe you actually like that concoction,“ Crowley said, seemingly oblivious to Aziraphale’s distress.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, quietly grateful for this distraction. “I don’t see why it’s such an issue for you. You like wine well enough, I remember, so it must be the cheese. Do you really hate it that much?”

Crowley shrugged. “I prefer beer. Wine has never tasted very good.”

“Fair point. Beer has been around a lot longer, though, maybe wine just needs some time to properly get good. I did like drinking beer with you.” What happened after was... to put it lightly, not so good, but Aziraphale didn’t feel like talking about that, so he didn’t.

They drifted into silence again. The party around them was still going strong, though the musicians had switched to a more peaceful song. Under any other circumstances, Aziraphale would’ve found it soothing to listen to, but it was not doing anything for him tonight. He took a piece of bread from the table, but eating that gave him no satisfaction either.

“It’s odd, isn’t it.” Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts.

Aziraphale finished with the piece of bread he was eating. “What is?”

“That it only happened to me.”

“What?”

“Aziraphale, you can’t really be that dense, can you? I’m talking about the ark, obviously.”

Aziraphale was, in fact, not that dense. He merely wanted to avoid talking about it.

Crowley continued, “The only difference was that I wasn’t supposed to be there, and you were.”

“And you’re a demon,” Aziraphale said. “Whereas I’m an angel.”

“Yes, but the story goes that angels and demons can’t touch each other. Nowhere, absolutely _nowhere_ does it say only demons die when that happens.”

“Maybe because they didn’t know?” Even as he said that, Aziraphale knew he was just scrambling for guesses, postulating at best.

Crowley made a face. “That doesn’t make sense. How would anyone even think angels and demons can’t touch, then?”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said. “That can’t be it. But there has to be some reason...”

“Oh no, no, you can’t be saying that–”

“Listen, it’s the only explanation I can think of, you try coming up with something better–”

“ _No_. You do not need another ego boost.”

“ _What_? ‘Ego boost’? Are you even hearing yourself? I _lost_ you, Crowley, for what I thought was forever, and you’re talking about an ego boost!”

“Was talking about the general you,” Crowley said, voice demure and posture a little hunched at the scolding, “angels in general.”

Aziraphale sighed. “We definitely shouldn’t let the others hear it, that’s true. But my point still stands.”

“Your point being?”

“Divinity overpowering evil, of course. It seems divinity is inherently stronger.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t believe that already,” Crowley replied. “Also, why did we get the short end of the stick on that too? Is there no end to– oh, whatever.”

“I did not–” Aziraphale started.

“Shh!” Crowley interrupted him. “I’m sure whatever you wanted to say would have been fascinating, but save it until after the speech!” He motioned towards the end of the long table, where an old man in a striking outfit had just appeared.

Aziraphale turned his head. “The what– oh." It seemed their host had finally decided to make an appearance. _He just had to do it in a way that would make sure all eyes were on him_ , Aziraphale thought to himself. _Like you could miss him, the way he’s dressed._

It wasn’t a bad speech, as far as speeches go, but the man liked listening to himself a lot, and that was _abundantly_ clear to Aziraphale. He’d had plenty of practice pretending to be interested in speeches like this, but it was certainly testing his abilities.

Minute after minute went by, and he was still going. Aziraphale itched for something to do other than listen.

As it had done many times this evening, his mind started wandering. Eventually, it wandered to what had happened that evening. They’d found out that they _could_ touch, if only through clothing. _Better than nothing. At least this way there’s a_ very _good chance he won’t die_.

A realisation hit him.

See, it had only happened at all because Crowley had lost his balance. They hadn’t meant to touch, but they did. But—and this was _crucial_ —there was no reason the accidental aspect of it was in any way important.

They could do it again. They could touch. So long as it was through clothing, they _should_ be safe. Their robes were certainly long enough.

Before Aziraphale could act on that realisation, their host—finally—finished his speech. Belatedly, Aziraphale realised he’d completely missed the entire last section. Hopefully, it wasn’t important, but it wasn’t like he’d come here for the speech alone.

Slowly but surely the murmur of conversation could be heard all around them. Aziraphale took this moment to move slightly, and under the pretense of stretching his legs, pressed his thigh against Crowley’s.

“What the– what do you think you are doing?” Crowley hissed.

“Isn’t it obvious? Do try to relax, dear, nothing bad will happen. We’re not actually touching, you see.”

“I noticed,” Crowley said, flustered, then relaxed into the touch. “S’nice, actually. I just didn’t expect it.”

“Well, then, how about we keep doing it? This party won’t end for a while. We’ve got time to kill.” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley nodded.

It was a very pleasant evening for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grated cheese in wine was genuinely a thing Etruscans did, and that comment Aziraphale makes about having tried in Greece at an earlier point is also true, as that is where the Etruscans got it from in the first place.
> 
> You can read more about that and other things I put in this chapter in an article called "Banqueting and Food" by Fabio Colivicchi, from the book "Etruscology" published by Alessandro Naso, and [this article](https://www.ancient.eu/article/1024/etruscan-banquets/) has a lot of useful information as well.


	3. Veiled and Undeserved

**Chapter 2: ~50 AD**

"Knock, knock," Crowley leaned against the doorway to Aziraphale's study in his home. It seemed they'd both been directed to remain in the general vicinity of Rome so, why not stay where they already were? Aziraphale had put down some roots, got a comfortable little home with a bedroom converted to a library, and a study, and a nice little kitchen to store his bread and staples in.

Crowley had… sort of wandered off and done whatever he liked in Rome, which included a lot of scoping out the best places to eat and drink (and also updating his wardrobe as well as flicking off a few curses to the man who'd sold him for a sucker upon his first entrance to Rome. Barbarian indeed!).

But now he’d seen announcements of a play and decided to tempt Aziraphale to go with him, a tragedy of course, because Aziraphale wouldn't go with him to the kinds you were meant to heckle the actors, and after honest comedies, those were Crowley's favourite. Tempt an angel to a tragedy… sounded like a bad novella. Crowley wondered if any such book had been written, or play, or edda. Eddas were nice, they got recited, Crowley liked eddas…

"Yes, Crowley?" Aziraphale didn't bother to look up from his book, so Crowley harrumphed from his lithe posing and slumped to shove his hands under Aziraphale's nose, to obstruct his reading. Deliberately, Crowley leaned back against the desk and let his thigh brush the outside of Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale stubbornly pretended he didn’t notice, but Crowley could see he got a little flustered.

“They’re doing a new adapted play this afternoon, ‘s called Antigone. Figured it might be one you’d enjoy.” Crowley looked expectantly at Aziraphale who, after a few moments, closed his book and carefully put it back on a book pile on his desk.

“I have other obligations, Crowley, I can’t go,” Aziraphale said, staring at his hands, which were now settled, hidden in his lap.

Crowley huffed. “Bullshit. Neither of us actually have, as you so eloquently put it, _obligations_. Do you not like plays? Do you not like tragedies?” Aziraphale didn’t respond, so Crowley continued, “I’m sure whatever you were reading was _very_ interesting, but you can’t just read inside when there’s an entire city, nay, _empire_ to explore!” He waved his arms, gesticulating wildly, as he was speaking and he became so agitated he nearly knocked an entire shelf of scrolls to the ground.

“Careful!" Aziraphale jumped out of his chair. “Those are delicate!”

“Oh, so you care more about your precious writings than me, good to know,” Crowley said dryly.

“What—no, Crowley, that’s not—”

Crowley waved him off. “I know. Now, are you coming or not?”

After a few moments, Aziraphale nodded. “How do you plan to get in, though? I’m not seeing any tickets on you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, angel. I’ve secured two of the best spots for us.” Crowley grinned. He didn’t say _how_ , the angel would probably disapprove. Best to keep him unaware, even if he suspected Crowley got them via less than scrupulous means. (Hey, he _was_ a demon. He only acted like he was meant to. You can’t blame him for that.)

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you have. Given your need to hasten me so much, I trust it’s starting soon? Lead the way, my dear.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I’m your dear now?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Really, Crowley, must you dissect _everything_ I say? How can we ever hold a proper conversation like this?”

“Who needs proper conversation anyways, when there’s so many other things we can do?”

“What, like watch a play?” Aziraphale replied, sardonically

Still grinning, Crowley waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Yes! Come on, angel, you _love_ tragedies, and you’ll especially like this one.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness to it. “Oh, all right, let’s go then. Once again, my _dear_ , lead the way.”

Crowley walked out the door, Aziraphale following suit. The sun was shining brightly, and the streets were bustling with people, and Crowley nearly lost Aziraphale in the crowd. That simply would not do, so he quickly devised a solution. “Aziraphale, give me your elbow.”

Aziraphale looked puzzled. “What?”

“You heard me. Give me your elbow, I don’t want to lose you in the crowd, and since holding hands is... well, it’s not an option, so linking elbows it is. Our arms are covered, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Crowley held out his arm with a patience not natural to a demon.

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow in confusion. “No they’re not—” he started to say, but then he looked down. “Oh. So they are.” Crowley had, without his notice, pulled the fabric of their clothing and extended it down to their forearms without even a snap to be polite about it.

Crowley snorted. “Once we’re there you can shorten it again, don’t worry, I know how much you care about your appearance.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to retort, but before he could, Crowley quickly pulled him out of the way of a cart that was coming far faster than it ought to have been.

“Oh!” Aziraphale looked more piqued than shocked. “I would very much like to have a word with that driver. How inconsiderate! At this rate, there’ll be an accident before–”

“Relax, Aziraphale, otherwise we’ll miss the start of the play. Cart’s gone now, anyways, you can’t do anything about that anymore,” Crowley said. He looked at Aziraphale’s face, who still looked a bit perturbed. Crowley made a face. “Oh, all right, I’ll make sure something happens to him. He’ll have a dinner that won’t sit well, alright? That good enough for you?”

“I do not condone the use of demonic miracles for revenge, no matter how just,” Aziraphale replied, but Crowley knew he was secretly grateful. (It was his face that gave it away, really.)

The sun was still shining as bright as ever, and the streets were still bustling with all sorts of people, but it felt ever so slightly changed from before. It was... pleasant, being together in this way, walking together like any two other people on the earth rather than instinctual adversaries, and on their way to a play.

It didn’t take them long, as the theatre of Pompey hadn’t been far away in the first place. It was a good thing, too; the play was starting right as Aziraphale and Crowley entered the theatre.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley. If anyone asked Crowley, which they certainly didn't, Aziraphale looked far too aghast at seeing Crowley simply… Make sure the man taking payments didn't see them, or rather didn't remember not making a fuss about them walking through.

Crowley shrugged, somehow incredibly smug in the shoulders. “It wasn’t hard, trust me.” He glanced over at Aziraphale. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, he’s forgotten about that already, no ill effects.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, but didn’t respond any further.

Crowley allowed his attention to wander, and eventually his eyes arrived at the play that was being acted out in front of him. _Aziraphale is probably wrapped up in the story already_ , he mused. Both of them were familiar with the plot of Antigone already, having seen it in Greece when it was new; no two performances were the same, however, and he was interested to see how the Romans had interpreted this one. (Probably far less focus on the chorus, and he wasn’t too fond of that trend. _The singing is what ties it all together, dammit, but no, they don’t_ like _it. Sheesh._ )

Still, it wasn’t too bad. The actors were damnably decent, he could appreciate that in a play.

Crowley very deliberately did not think of how much he could, for lack of a better word, relate to the story. It wasn’t that he’d ever been in a situation like this but–well, it was the inevitability of it all, wasn’t it? You knew what the consequences would be, but you still didn’t listen, and oh hey, look what just came knocking on the door: those same consequences you already knew about.

Nope, he definitely wasn’t thinking about that, nor was he still thinking about it when the play ended.

“Poor Antigone,” Aziraphale murmured, “she didn’t deserve that.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “We all get things we don’t deserve, angel, _deserve_ has got nothing to do with it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, I know, trust me. Caesar didn’t deserve 23 knives in his body here, either, but he got them anyway.”

“Didn’t he?”

Aziraphale went on, undeterred, seemingly not having heard Crowley (he probably had). “And we know better than most that we get a lot of things we don’t deserve, and conversely, don’t get a lot of things we do deserve. It’s unfortunate, but that’s just how it is.”

Crowley snorted. “Oh, I see, ‘just how it is’. Just obey the rules, you’ve got no choice anyways, right?”

“There are things in life we cannot choose, and you know that. All we can do is our best with what we’ve got, and help others.”

“Help others? You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, careful not to touch any skin. “Yes, dear, I do. Come on, the play’s over, let’s go."

Their arms linked and Crowley nearly startled with how Aziraphale settled his hand gently in the crook of Crowley's arm, just above where their arms tangled. The warmth of his hand was searing through the thin layer of linen between palm and his arm; suddenly it felt too much like tempting fate and like the linen might disintegrate between them until Crowley fell apart too. In a mad urge, Crowley nearly covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own, but stopped himself before he got too far.

No, it'd be better like this, take what he'd give, and be happy for it. That's what the likes of Crowley deserved.

“Ah. Yes. Let’s go,” said Crowley, nearly tripping over his toga as he started walking. “Time to go back home.”

“Home, already?” Aziraphale pouted. “No tempting me to dinner?”

“I am _not_ taking you to that oyster place again. I don’t care how remarkably Petronius prepares them, I am never eating those... _things..._ again.”

“Well, who said you had to eat them?” Aziraphale asked, his face the picture of innocence.

“Don’t– come on, angel, don’t give me that face, you _know_ –”

“I do know, yes, I know a great deal of things.” Aziraphale smiled a smile that managed to look as pure as the driven snow while simultaneously being the most smug expression he had ever worn.

Crowley groaned, attracting some strange looks from passersby. This attention was gone as soon as he shot them a rather demonic look. “ _Fine_. But I’m not paying.”

“Nor did I think you would,” Aziraphale said, his face shining with delight. It almost made Crowley feel warm inside with affection.

Almost. _Almost_ , but not actually. Of course not, what do you take him for? He’s a demon!

Nor was he looking at Aziraphale fondly as he was eating and raving about how good they were, trying to convince Crowley to try one— "Come on, they’re really good, I promise!” “They’re _slimy_ , no _thank_ you.”—he was absolutely not smitten with Aziraphale, no, not at all.

He’s a demon, and demons don’t love. Definitely not angels.

Aziraphale was enjoying his oysters so much he ordered a second round, and Crowley got to go through the entire emotional rollercoaster again. When Aziraphale finished his plate for the second time that night, Crowley held his hand up to stop him. “While it is terribly interesting to watch you eat oysters, I can’t do it all night, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale stared morosely at his plate. “But they’re so delicious... I could eat many more of them!”

“I’ve no doubt about that, but it’s time we go home. I’ll walk with you.” Crowley extended his arm as he had done earlier that day.

Aziraphale beamed. “Why thank you!”

Even though it was dark already, it was still busy on the streets. Luckily, their trip to Aziraphale’s home passed without any incident.

Neither of them wanted to say goodbye, but they had to.

“Thank you for inviting me, Crowley, it was a very enjoyable experience.” Aziraphale said.

He looked beautiful in the moonlight. Too beautiful.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s toga folds over his head and let the fabric hang over the angel’s forehead like a veil. Before Aziraphale had a chance to react, he leaned in and kissed him on the forehead, their skins never truly touching while the fabric protected them both. “Good night, Aziraphale. See you tomorrow.”

Aziraphale, stunned, carefully pushed the toga off his head. “Good– good night, Crowley.”

Crowley, without a word, waved his goodbye and then disappeared into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the information used in this chapter was spare knowledge I had lying around in my brain (I had six years of Latin in high school, and _something_ has to stick, you know?). I did, however, use the wikipedia articles for both the [ theatre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theatre_of_Pompey) and the [play](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antigone_\(Sophocles_play\)).


	4. Shared Cups

Ψαῦε μελισταγέων στομάτων, δέπας· εὗρες, ἄμελγε·  
οὐ φθονέω, τὴν σὴν δ᾽ ἤθελον αἶσαν ἔχειν.

_Touch the honey-dripping mouth, oh cup: you have found it, so taste:  
I'm not envious, yet I would like to have your luck._

_Constantinople, November 565 AD._

It was unusually mild for a November day in Constantinople. A light sea breeze wound its way through the streets and alleys of the city, warming the evening air. It lingered in the squares of the fora and between the churches, making the cold bearable.

A certain apprehensive melancholy had settled over the city and it didn’t pass Aziraphale and Crowley unnoticed. The death of the emperor was bound to happen at some point, but Aziraphale had hoped that he might clear up some of his messes before he passed. It hadn’t happened, though, and the dangers of yet another uprising stretched very palpable before them, unless his new successor managed to stabilise the finances of the state. Aziraphale despised the thought, but he knew well that there was little he could do. Times were changing and empires that had governed the Mediterranean for centuries were coming to an end.

Aziraphale was certain that Crowley felt the same way. It was written in the lines of her face as she leant against one of the columns framing the courtyard entrance to the Hagia Sophia, sprawling across the threshold to the atrium. It didn’t seem effortless. It seemed tired and weary. He reached for one of the cups between them and filled it for her without needing to be asked.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable here?” he asked, nodding towards the church on the other side of the green garden. “We can go somewhere else, a place that’s not between holy ground.”

“Do you know how many churches there are in Constantinople?” Crowley asked, a smirk on her face. 

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. He found that he did not care much for the multitude of churches the city had to offer. He’d grown a little tired of their golden-tiled perfection.

“Neither do I, but there’s blessed many of them. My skin’s tingling with it no matter where I am. Might as well sit on the steps of a church entrance.”

“Well, the atrium is not _exactly_ holy, is it?”

Aziraphale emptied his cup, watching the breeze pass through the leaves of a sturdy tree. It cast a shadow across the porticus leading up towards Hagia Sophia’s entrance, painting it in alternating patterns of black and sandstone-yellow. The sun was setting, and soon the alternating play of light and dark would be over.

He refilled his cup.

At least, it was quiet here. They’d met between the churches before, on accident, after dark, or in the crowds where they would be inconspicuous enough. It had been purely social, of course. The arrangement that Crowley had proposed on a cold marsh in Wessex, just a few decades ago, was preposterous, that’s what it was, and Aziraphale would not hear another word on it. If their conversations touched on matters of work, Heaven or Hell alike, well – that was purely coincidental. It’s not their fault that they had been sent to guide the same emperor.

But that chapter was closed now, a neat and unyielding _Finis_ written beneath it. Justinian was dead and they were both left hanging, waiting for new orders. They could bridge the time together, here in the shadow of the churches they had watched being built, destroyed and renovated over the centuries, passing an amphora of honey-sweetened wine.

“Do you think you’ll stay in Constantinople?” Aziraphale asked, after silence had fallen between them.

“I don’t know. I might back a pretender to the throne, cause a little chaos.”

At least, that was what Crowley would report back to Hell. Aziraphale suspected that she harboured more intentions behind this uncaring facade of hers, an act he had seen through a long time ago, when they’d stood in front of the Ark together and watched over the humans who had been considered worthy of life and those who had been damned alike.

“I suppose that Sophia would be an excellent pick. She is more capable than her husband and you could reach her rather well – after all, her aunt confided in you, even though I told her repeatedly that I didn’t approve of that.”

“Some people aren’t looking for approval, you know.”

“I know,” he said, without energy or conviction behind it.

It was a fundamental difference between the two of them, the way they searched for approval. Crowley would say that she didn’t, while Aziraphale would say that it was all he ever did. And yet, when it came down to the bottom of it, the truth they would never admit to was different. Aziraphale didn’t _search_ for approval, he worked for it, he calculated risks and necessities, practised his speeches. Crowley hoped that her character would gain her approval, or her insouciant air.

Perhaps, they were all looking for approval in the end, be it out of an ever-needy character trait or an instinct tied to getting through the world unharmed. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Pass me the amphora, will you?” he asked.

So Crowley did, carefully touching only one of the two handles to ensure their hands wouldn’t touch. Why did it have to be so hard to pass a drink between the two of them? If they were human, there would be no barrier between them except a societal one.

Crowley raised her cup and it looked rough between her bejewelled hands.

“To a new emperor,” she said, a sardonic smile playing around her lips. “May he reign soon.”

They clinked their cups against each other, and the dull sound of clay echoed through the columned atrium around them. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if it would be possible for them to share a cup. Was it skin to skin contact that resulted in a painful discorporation? Or did any fraction of their human corporations suffice? Would the imprint of their lips be enough to send Crowley down to Hell? Would it cause Aziraphale pain too this way? He could barely remember how the first time it had happened affected him, apart from the overwhelming shock and surprise. Had there been a prickling to his skin? A searing pin of pain? Would there be one now – could their… affliction change with the years?

It would do no good to ask those questions. He’d never get an answer from himself, or from Crowley either, and the only way to find out would cause at least one of them to get discorporated. He imagined it would be rather hard to explain _that_ to Gabriel.

( _Oh Gabriel, I just wondered what it would be like to touch a demon again. I tried it once, I think it hurt him, but I wanted to do it again. Wanted to do it in many different ways, if I’m honest, so I did. It was worth it, to feel that bit of skin._ )

“Perhaps I should leave,” he wondered out loud, sipping at the honey-sweetened wine. “After all, my assignment is over. I was merely meant to guide Justinian onto the right path. It’s rather useless for both of us to be here, isn’t it? Especially if we are to back the same people.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said quickly. “Leave, that is. I know we’d cancel each other out, but we’ve done that before, yeah?”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t really know where to go, either. The world is changing so quickly, don’t you think?”

It was a melancholic thought, how swiftly the world seemed to slip from Aziraphale’s grip on it. The empire was slowly fading away and he knew that the Western provinces wouldn’t remain under Constantinople’s reign for long. He had no idea what would happen after that. A new age would come, that much was certain, but he had trouble picturing it, and head office had sent him no notes. Perhaps it would change for the better, take after the ideals he’d witnessed at the court of King Arthur.

Amidst all this change and insecure times, it would be nice to have a friend. Although he couldn’t even _consider_ the offer Crowley had made a few decades ago, it kept creeping into the corners of his mind, settling in there as though it had a right to make itself at home. Perhaps Aziraphale could stay in Constantinople just a little longer, get his fill and hope to escape unscathed by the longing that was starting to accompany him every step of his way.

Again, he emptied his cup. The relaxing effect of the wine was starting to affect him a little, but not enough to tide over his worries.

It was dark by now and the wind had become colder. Aziraphale could feel the warmth of Crowley’s body, just a few cubits away from him. He wanted to get closer, had wanted to do so for quite a while – he’d lost track of it, if it had been centuries or millennia – and wondered if that was something he could do now, scoot just a bit more to the left, say it was due to the cold. The decision was taken out of his hands when an icy breeze pierced the fabric of his tunic and the woollen cloak he wore above it. He shuddered and wished for a moment that he hadn’t exchanged his court dress for a less conspicuous but also less warm set. Aziraphale looked over at Crowley and he could see the goose bumps trailing along the few inches of exposed skin between her bedazzled sleeves and wrists, too.

“It’s rather unusually cold, isn’t it?” he asked, shuffling a little closer, and he watched from the corner of his eye how Crowley sat upright and slouched again, leaning into his direction this time.

“Rather, yeah,” she said, pushing the veil she used to cover her unchangeable snake-eyes behind her ear.

It felt like more than one barrier was being pushed away between them, not just fabric, but a social construct. _See me for who I am, without a barrier of modesty, or status and propriety._ And perhaps – just perhaps – a doubt.

The fabric didn’t stay behind her ear. It sprang free within a few moments, taking a curl of fire-red hair with it, but it didn’t erase the change in the air between them. The only thing it did was highlight – the sharpness of Crowley’s cheekbones, the glint of her eyes, the light of a faraway fire reflecting off her golden collar. Perhaps the flames weren’t that far away, but they seemed miles removed from where they sat to Aziraphale.

It took courage to say the words that were beginning to form on the tip of his tongue, just as it had taken millennia of courage to feel them. For once, however, he had a chance to reason it away, to wring the words into an expression of detached benevolence, not heart-felt, harrowing affection.

“You can come closer,” Aziraphale whispered. “It’s warmer over here.”

“Is it, now?”

There was a twinkle in Crowley’s eyes that told him she understood his meaning. A stretch of her long body, the curl of her spine winding and unwinding – a move more fitting for the snake Crowley used to be than for the human she was posing as –, and within a moment, she was next to him, no longer lazily reclining but folded up, her chin carefully hovering over the forearm she had wrapped around her knee. It was an invitation, angled towards Aziraphale, and he wanted to take it as quickly and as carefully as he could. The contradiction struck him with painful clarity, but that was what they were, a set of mismatched incongruity.

They were alone in the cold, with no-one to watch them, and barriers between them that would keep them safe. No harm could come of it, so Aziraphale reached out.

He trailed his palm up Crowley’s sleeve carefully. It was reasonably safe, he knew that – after all, they had touched through fabric before – but it still made him feel cautious and apprehensive. The warmth of her corporation seeped through the wool where he touched it, and he wondered how warm her skin would be if he could touch it. Aziraphale knew that he never would, so he traced his fingers over the undulating, snake-like embroidery on her sleeve instead. Crowley watched the lines his hand drew across the golden twine and her eyes were bright with an intense concentration.

“What are you doing, Aziraphale?” she whispered, but it didn’t seem accusatory. It sounded more like cautionary intrigue.

He stilled for a moment, took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Alright. You think… Think this is fine?” Crowley hesitated for a moment. “I know we’ve touched before, with fabric between us, but ‘s different now, isn’t it? It’s not just a forehead, or a shin.”

Aziraphale felt a rush of anxiety flood over him. What if something happened? It couldn’t, could it?

“It should be safe, I think, to lean against each other,” he said, before he could change his mind. He wasn’t always brave but tonight, he wanted to be the one who took a risk. They were in abeyance. Abeyance needed momentum to shift it.

“It _is_ rather cold, isn’t it? Don’t think anyone could object.”

Crowley held his gaze for a few moments, searching for something like approval. No, that was the wrong word, but Aziraphale didn’t have the right one at hand. The only things that crossed his mind were a gesture – a swift nod – and a feeling, spinning around his heart, holding it together at the seams. He couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t face the implications.

Crowley blinked, and slowly – carefully – rested her head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Tunic, cloak, veil, hair. It barely felt like a touch between them, layers upon layers of separation, but it meant the world to him, to know this was possible. He’d always known that they would do this if they were humans, but knowing what it was like, to share a warmth like this – it convinced him that he wanted to do this until the end of time. Head next to head, thigh next to thigh.

Aziraphale raised his hand and gently placed it on Crowley’s back.

“There. Is it a proper hold now?”

She raised a brow at him, melancholy-tinted amusement sparkling in yellow eyes. Proper was not a word she’d agree with, he knew that, but he liked the idea of doing things _right_ even if the act itself was very, very wrong by definition of the universe itself. It must be; otherwise, why would it be keeping them apart?

“It’s very… sensible, I’d say. Another one?”

“Another what?”

“Another drink,” Crowley said, raising the clay cup to her thin lips.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember where he’d placed his own, so he watched, transfixed, as Crowley drank from hers, tracing the movement of her throat, and set it down between them. Between them, just a small stretch of mosaiced floor. Between them, an offer.

“I don’t know, Crowley,” he said, hesitating.

It was like a torrent tearing at his soul. At the end – fear of risk, of consequences, a desire to stay safe. At the spring – a connection. Wasn’t that what Aziraphale wanted so desperately? A connection, a palpable one? The question that remained was: How would he make the way between the two points?

Crowley’s expression darkened. “We’ve done that before, you know. Shared a cup.”

“We have?” That knowledge was new to him. “I can’t recall.”

“It was in Thinis, before we knew what happens when we touch. Remember that? First time I had beer.”

A sly smile spread across Crowley’s face, and suddenly the details flooded Aziraphale’s mind. It had been his first try at beer as well, in a shadowed spot on top of a farmer’s house. Back then, he hadn’t known the effect it would have on him, and neither had the demon. He’d never forget this first giddiness they’d shared, the roaring laughter that came after it, and the next day’s painful hangover. Now, almost four millennia later, he could barely recall how it felt _not_ to sober up before enduring consequences.

“Of course, I remember, dear,” Aziraphale said. “Just not the bit about the cup.”

“You can try again now, can’t you?”

There was no reason not to, was there? If it kept him from looking at the slyly hopeful smile playing around her lips, from wishing he could touch Crowley’s face, see if that smile would be palpable beneath his skin. In a way, he hoped it wasn’t, so he would not be missing out on any of it.

Aziraphale nodded. He watched as Crowley took another sip.

“The rest is yours,” she said, hesitating.

The question was how to pass the drink between them. Fingers could not brush. Lips could not brush, but that was another matter entirely. A look got exchanged between them, and it was a silent agreement to risk this. Crowley held up the cup with one hand, gingerly, and Aziraphale shook out his sleeve until the brown fabric covered his palm so he could wrap it around the other side. Their fingers didn’t brush, not even through the fabric, and Aziraphale felt oddly disappointed, even though he knew that skin-to-skin-contact would be ruinous.

Sometimes, Aziraphale thought that he wanted to be ruined. Just a little bit.

Highly inappropriate for an angel, wasn’t it, to even _entertain_ such a thought? And yet, Aziraphale found that he wanted nothing more than to transgress the rules, just once. Maybe, if he got very, very lucky and no harm came off it, more than once.

He lifted the cup to his mouth, right where the imprint of Crowley’s lips had left a mark. Under Crowley’s watchful, unblinking eye, Aziraphale placed his own lips there, felt the slightly coarse clay and drank. Nothing happened.

That wasn’t quite true, now was it? Aziraphale didn’t combust. His lips didn’t burn, but they prickled with excitement. His heart burned, too, with the thrill of possibilities and the delight of this connection between them. It was a strangely freeing thing, after centuries of touch-induced anxiety. Breath, lips, wine. Intermingling with the ghost of other lips. Like a kiss.

He saw the same emotion mirrored in Crowley’s eyes. Intriguing, wasn’t it? How similar an angel and a demon could be, how starved for affection. The wine was sweet and the heady feeling it caused in his bloodstream soothed him, made him feel at home. He nearly forgot that they were sitting on a threshold between churches, between stone-cold pillars, wrapped up in the biting breeze.

The cup was drained.

“It’s a rather good _mulsum_ , don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked, running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, collecting spilt drops of wine.

“Sweeter than usual,” Crowley said.

Behind the veil, her snake eyes trailed along Aziraphale’s mouth. He knew the whirl of excitement that gripped him then all too well. They’d exchanged longing glances and charged looks for millennia, a familiar part of their ages-old dance. The push and pull that brought them together and kept them apart again, like tidal waves breaking on the sun-washed shore. They hadn’t tried to touch in a while. Centuries had passed, carefully avoiding the warmth Aziraphale knew they both craved. Perhaps they should try it again.

Longing was a powerful force.

Even though Crowley sat next to him (with his arm around her, imagine!), the veil seemed like a barrier between them. He wanted to see that face, those eyes, unobscured, wanted to read the emotions there. He hoped that they were warm, just as warm as the colour of the golden snake-medallion and pearls keeping her hair in place. Aziraphale wanted to ruin the updo and pull the veil aside, run his hands through those curls. Would it burn his palms, give him blisters to keep safe until they meet again? Or would those red strands crumble under his touch?

Instead of red hair and pins, he could only feel a shared cup in his hands. A poem occurred to him.

“You remember those lines? They’re rather new, a poet called Leontios wrote them. _Touch the honey-dripping mouth, oh cup: you have found it, so taste. I am not envious, yet I wish to have that luck of yours_.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asked, and a smirk must have played around her lips. He could hear it in her voice.

“Of course, I remember them,” Aziraphale began. “I have seen the inscription on–“

Crowley clicked her tongue at him. “You know that’s not what I meant. What _do_ you wish for, Aziraphale?”

He remained silent for a long moment, gazing past the columns that separated them from the holy spaces of the church. What he wanted was something he couldn’t have. What he wanted would burn Crowley, turn her to ash and drag her, soul first, back into Hell.

“I should very much like to kiss you,” he said, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t think it, shouldn’t feel it, shouldn’t say it. “Not the imprint on a cup. You.”

Crowley laughed, but it was a bitter, joyless sound, ripped out of the depths of her throat. “You think I wouldn’t want that?” she asked. “You think I don’t curse it, too?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to discuss theology, nor justice. Instead, he watched as the water trickled down into the fountain inside the atrium garden, wondered if it had been blessed and if the wind could carry it. The world around them was dangerous, unloving, and harsh. He’d seen the dome collapse just a few years ago, and he’d seen the place burnt to the ground by a previous generation. And yet the humans could reshape their rubble, something they themselves never could. What they broke, they broke forever. There was no solution to their problem, to the static trickery that held up their corporations, rib by rib.

A cold gust of air brushed past them, and the far away yells of the night watch carried across the wind into this semi-holy sanctuary of theirs. The breeze picked up the loose end of Crowley’s veil and it fluttered across her face, hiding everything but her very eyes. Something twinkled there, something mischievous, and maybe, inexplicably, something hopeful.

“How’d you feel about taking a risk?” Crowley asked, quietly.

Her gaze trailed between the cup and Aziraphale’s lips, and he immediately understood.

“I suppose – sometimes – it can be the right thing to do.”

Crowley laughed. “The _right_ thing? Now that’s bold of you to say.”

And yet it didn’t deter either of them. Aziraphale watched as she reached for the dark veil, and her hands were pale and coarse with the winter cold, trembling ever so slightly as she tucked the end of the gossamer fabric underneath the rim of her gilded, jewel-studded collar. The metal rustled against the scrape of her dress, and he couldn’t help thinking how perfectly over-the-top Crowley’s clothes were, wherever they went. Always black, always slim-cut and sleek.

Aziraphale leant forward, carefully ensuring that he wouldn’t touch any skin. It was harder these days anyway, with the layers of coats and tunics that hid bodies from the crowds, but he didn’t want to risk anything. His heart beat quickly, blood rushing into the hollowed-out cavities of his heart, all too human and excited after four millennia on Earth. He could have sworn that he could feel the ghost of Crowley’s breath on his lips, but it was impossible, not with this barrier between them, the gauzy silk that wafted gently on the breeze.

It was Crowley who eventually bridged the gap between them, when Aziraphale hesitated for another nerve-wrought moment. At first, he did not feel the pressure of Crowley’s lips, or the warmth of that corporation which he’d grown to know so well over centuries of their acquaintance. What he felt was the slight scrape of black silk, rough against the weather-worn edges of his lips. A strange scent clung to it, an amalgamation of the life it passed by everyday – the spices of a marketplace, the incense drifting through the doors of the churches that lined the streets, the sweetness of the flowers in the women’s court. It enveloped him, made him feel comfortable and at home – something he should never experience at a demon’s side.

And then he felt the give of Crowley’s mouth, pressing against Aziraphale’s lips, and it was warm, and strong, and he could feel the love instilled in the simple act. The movement of their lips fixed him in place, made him lose his grasp on time and place.

The edge of the veils slipped from the place it was tucked under and dangled between them, caught on the midnight breeze. It didn’t matter though, not anymore, with the fabric safely in place between their lips, their chins, the slopes of their shoulders where they touched ever so gently. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s corporation, the way it calmed something within him, the longing that radiated in the background of his conscience whenever they crossed paths. And even though this warmth comforted him, a different, more restless part of his soul was incited, and he knew that it would not stop clamouring for more until the end of days.

He could still feel it when they parted.

“I believe it’s supposed to go like this,” Aziraphale said, and he noticed the faint colouring of Crowley’s cheeks.

He leant back to get a better look at Crowley, to find a clue in her serpentine eyes, and his movement tipped over the clay cup he had forgotten about. The wine spilt onto the white marble slabs that paved the portico, tainting the stone with its dregs and the ground spices. They clung to the cracks and remained, tinted red, an undeniable sign of their presence in the courtyard tonight. Aziraphale should miracle it away, erase any trace of them as he always did.

“We’ve fucked up, haven’t we?” Crowley said, all of a sudden.

She diligently tucked the veil back into place, covering the tresses of her red hair, and grabbed the amphora and cups, which had slowly rolled closer towards the edge of the portico. Aziraphale watched as she untangled the folds of her tunics from her legs and rose, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move. He was still turning those words in his head, over and over again.

“I suppose we have,” he said finally, when Crowley shot him an odd look and inclined her head towards the gate. “But I don’t find myself regretting it.”

He followed Crowley past the gate into the streets, but she stopped right there and laughed, a strange sparkle in her serpentine eyes. “Perhaps you will, when things become more difficult.” She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head to herself. “I’ll have to head in the other direction. Women’s palace and all, you know how it is.”

Aziraphale did not know how it was. He knew, however, that they’d both have to pass the Chalke Gate in order to enter the palace quarter, but he did not question the reason for Crowley’s lie. He understood it well enough, and if Crowley wanted space, well, he would give it. This was the way the story went, right? They’d meet again when the circumstances allowed.

So he nodded and watched as Crowley turned and walked off towards the old city centre, away from the palace, and the black of her tunic quickly melted into the night. Aziraphale rubbed his hands nervously, before hiding them in the folds of his chlamys to keep them safe from the sharp breeze that was picking up again, and began the short way back towards his quarters. He allowed himself to get distracted by his surroundings; it was better than getting lost in the maze of his own thoughts.

Vela flew over the colonnades, dancing on the wind, and Aziraphale trailed their movement with his eyes. They seemed desolate in the cold winter air, with nothing to protect from hot, sweltering sun. The lonely passer-by underneath them was someone they couldn’t protect, not ever.

Perhaps Aziraphale should consider Crowley’s offer once more. He was an angel, yes, and he couldn’t risk being connected to a demon, couldn’t fulfil temptations instead of blessings, but he felt an immeasurable need. He _needed_ to see Crowley, to have their meetings depend on something other than a thin thread of coincidence and luck. A meaning to what they did.

And if he couldn’t allow himself to find that meaning in the love that was slowly, but ever so steadily growing inside his soul, he might find it in efficiency, or in the good that a professional cooperation could offer to the humans under their wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In good old fashion, I'm adding a source for you. If you're interested in what (early) medieval Constantinople might have looked like, I recommend checking out the amazing reconstructions at [the Byzantium1200 project](https://www.byzantium1200.com/hagia.html).
> 
> If you're interested in the clothing of antiquity, a nice (albeit sleightly dated) starting point is "Ancient European Costume and Fashion" by Herbert Norris.
> 
> The lines are from a poem by Leontios, recorded in the Anthologia Graeca.


	5. beneath fingertips

The crepes were good, Crowley surmised, by the way Aziraphale paused to hold each bite in his mouth before even chewing, eyes closed and eyelids fluttering as he breathed in and breathed out. One of those noises always followed each forkful — _those_ noises, Aziraphale’s noises, the ones that expressed sensations Crowley wasn’t used to associating with food. Decadent pleasure, tender spice, sweet release: these were all sounds Crowley had heard during a number of temptations. He remained amazed at the way Aziraphale’s palate appreciated complex human foods, because _amazed_ sounded a lot better than _needy, enthralled, and a little bit aroused._

He couldn’t keep his eyes from the slouchy hat sitting jauntily on Aziraphale’s curls; the dark red of the jacket, more his color than the angel’s, was completely changing the outline of those broad shoulders. The sash was, admittedly, silly, but the dark color over Aziraphale’s lace collar was a striking contrast to the pale-shaded angel he was used to. It was odd, but in a way that was more exciting than anything.

“I didn’t really plan on entering this area of the city, either,” Aziraphale was saying, apparently still defending his _idiotic_ decision to come anywhere near Paris in an outfit that screamed luxury at anyone speaking the language of rebellion. “I thought I’d be safe in the _Marais,_ at least. Who _knew_ everything had been drawn out this far?”

_Me,_ Crowley thought, but did not say; also, anyone who had had an eye on the events here in France, or in America, or in a dozen other places. Maybe Aziraphale had been caught up in his search for the perfect bookshop — something Crowley found repulsively endearing — but normally Aziraphale had a better sense of the state of the world they lived in. Well, so what? It had given Crowley a lovely excuse to come to the rescue, and now he’d managed to linger for a meal, too.

He wasn’t - _quite_ \- ready to acknowledge the thing that had screamed into his backbrain, that sense that felt like he’d swallowed it — the way he’d known Aziraphale was in danger, and had - happily, easily - brought himself right to Aziraphale’s side at the perfect time. This _sense_ had been growing inside Crowley over the last millenia, built on a cascade of desperate touches and presses. His lips on Aziraphale’s, through a veil; Aziraphale’s hand on his elbow, the small of his back, toying with the curls Lady Crowley had worn for a decade. Each _near miss_ had built up inside them both, and Crowley had found somewhat to his dismay that he could sense spikes in Aziraphale’s mood: when the angel was happy, when he was in distress, even when he’d met with Heaven and come back carrying that confusing air of guilt and shame. 

Dismay was one word for it; ecstasy, another.

“I guess,” Aziraphale was saying, with the tone of someone finishing a bit of a rant, “ _maybe_ I wandered a bit too far for a traditional _baguette,_ but can you _blame_ me, dear boy? London has nothing that even comes close.”

Crowley tugged his attention back to the table. “Angel,” he drawled, letting it linger in his mouth, as delicious as anything Aziraphale had tasted today. “No blaming, me. Love a good bit of gluttony, myself.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale drew himself upright, shoulders squared and that damned twinkle in his eye. “I’d call it pride, to be fair,” he said, and Crowely cackled out loud. 

“Whichever you like best,” he said to Aziraphale, waving a generous hand. “Dealer’s choice, here.”

Aziraphale shifted happily in his seat, and then brought a hand up to adjust the beret he was wearing. “ _Drat_ this clothing,” he said with feeling. “I already miss that jacket.”

And then the idea occurred to Crowley — appeared right in his head, all bright and shining and brilliant. “You want it back, angel?”

Aziraphale turned to him with the same open joy on his face that he’d had when Crowley had first appeared in the Bastille; it dimmed only a little when their eyes met. “Oh, Crowley–?”

“We’ll go back to yours once you’re done here,” Crowley all but purred. “I’m fairly sure your pretty little outfit showed up _somewhere_.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley waved a hand in his direction, ducking his head so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see how _pleased_ he was. “Turn that off. You’re practically glowing.” 

He glanced up to see Aziraphale looking at him, the way that felt like Aziraphale was looking past all of Crowley’s bluster and barriers, right into the blackened and broken heart that only beat for one angel, these days. Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes over his shaded lenses, trying to do the same. Could Aziraphale feel the _longing_ inside of Crowley, the way he’d stored every single touch between them on a shelf inside his battered chest? Did Aziraphale still want the same way: that one press of lips through silk, burning more sharply than any fire Crowley had ever summoned? He would chance it, Crowley would. What was discorporation in the face of that flame?

And looking into Aziraphale’s eyes, he finally saw that same longing, and knew that Aziraphale would not.

“Done, angel?” Crowley’s mouth felt tight, his throat too open; he could hear the hissing at the tip of his tongue, and knew it would be leaking into all of his sybillants. 

Aziraphale blinked, and then he threw out that smug little smile he had whenever he _knew_ he’d managed to get Crowley worked up. The wiggle of his shoulders was practically self-satisfied, the bastard. “One more bite,” he said, and Crowley watched as he slowly cut up the remainder of his final crepe - strawberries and cream - and just as slowly ate each and every piece. Had the noises gotten even more extravagant? Crowley thought they had. 

“Sssso,” he said finally, as Aziraphale patted around his mouth with the napkin and signaled for the cheque. “Where are you ssstaying?”

Aziraphale frowned, a deliciously pouty moue. “What on earth makes you think I’ve got rooms in _Paris?”_

Crowley rolled his eyes, making sure it was dramatic enough for Aziraphale to notice over his dark lenses. “Don’t tell me you’ve got enough miracle leeway to just channel yourself across the Channel like a lark, but couldn’t save yourself from a bloody decapitation?”

“Well, I,” Aziraphale said, and then glanced away and patted at his mouth again, even though there wasn’t a grain of sugar left. “I’m afraid I haven’t thought quite that far ahead.” The words were a bit sheepish, but the sly glance Aziraphale flicked his way for a fraction of a second told Crowley the rest of the story.

Crowley cackled, delighted. “Right, angel, I’ll fix that for you as well.” A quick snap, dragging his infernal powers up into the earthly plane, and a lovely little room in _L’Hotel d’Ailes_ was quite hastily canceled and just as hastily rebooked. The previous clients would be furious, the _concierge_ would be frustrated, and the maids irritable: a perfect little bubble of ill will to send back down to Hell.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Should I…?”

“ _Don’t_ thank me,” Crowley warned. He was fucking _ecstatic._ Aziraphale didn’t often commit to this game of theirs _quite_ so thoroughly, but when he did? Crowley was _giddy_ with the anticipation. Somewhere in his hindbrain, serpent senses starting to uncurl, he wondered whether the entire thing had been a ploy, or an invitation: the setup for a dashing rescue. He wasn’t sure whether that made it _even better._ Nevertheless, Aziraphale was playing now, carefully laying down cards. It was a hand they were both familiar with, at this point, steeped in that nearly-tangible bond between them, the ache of love and desire entwined, combined with the thrillingly horrible knowledge that they dare not. 

“Come on, angel.” The cheque had been managed, and Aziraphale allowed Crowley to pull his chair out as he stood; the angel tugged at the wine-colored fabric of the jacket, frowning. 

“I’m not sure this even fits,” Aziraphale said, with another delicate moue of disgust.

_As if you’d dare miracle anything that didn’t fit you,_ Crowley didn’t say. “It’s not that bad, you know. You look good in darker colors.” _My colorsss,_ he also did not say, although it sat at the very tip of his tongue, escaping in the smallest hiss.

Aziraphale knew, if the look he threw Crowley’s way was any indication, but he didn’t comment. “It isn’t that I’m not sympathetic to their revolution, the poor dears. But these ridiculous _sans-culottes_?” His shudder was extra dramatic. “Well, it’s a shame they had to tie _fashion_ to their ideals, isn’t it?”

Crowley — whose colors were more appropriate, but who was also wearing proper breeches with stockings like a gentleman — rolled his eyes just a little bit. “I like it. Makes it all symbolic.”

“You would,” Aziraphale murmured, catching at Crowley’s elbow for a moment as they worked their way through the crowd. Did Aziraphale know how brightly his touch burned, even through the layers of Crowley’s coat and shirt? Crowley felt very overdone. 

_L’Hotel d’Ailes_ wasn’t that far - a good demonic miracle had made sure of that - and Crowley led Aziraphale inside with a series of increasingly dramatic gestures: bowing, waving his hands and arms, grinning all the way up from under his darkened glasses. That tension was building between them again, and every single prim huff Aziraphale made sent thrills through his demonic bloodstream. _If we were humans,_ Crowley thought, _this would be the clandestine meeting where we retreat to the hotel room and fuck for hours._ The thought of it. What would it be like…?

But no. Crowley closed the door behind them and gestured towards the bed, pulling up a good handful of occult power. He imagined Aziraphale’s outfit from before, all of those prissy creams and beiges and faint pinks, and because he imagined it was identical, it was.

“Oh, Crowley.” It was a coo more than anything, two words couched in relentlessly sharp affection. Aziraphale sat down on the bed, running his fingers over the sleek material of his jacket, that thick embroidery that ran down his arms. 

“Come on, angel.” Crowley tried to keep his voice gruff as he approached to stand before Aziraphale. “Let’s get you out of the revolution and back to London.”

Aziraphale reached up towards his head — and Crowley grasped at his wrists, catching them and holding them, his long fingers wrapped around the lacy cuffs Aziraphale hadn’t been able to give up, the rough coarse seams of the executioner’s jacket. He imagined he could feel Aziraphale’s pulse fluttering through it all.

“You’ll let me,” Crowley said, and it was an order and a question and a plea all at once.

Aziraphale looked up at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and his tongue came out to delicately wet the bow of his lips before he nodded, just once.

Crowley delicately reached out to pluck that beret from Aziraphale’s head, and then moved - so carefully - to run his fingers through the very tips of Aziraphale’s pale, mussed curls. 

“You’ll be careful,” Aziraphale said, suddenly sharp, and a bit breathless.

“Always careful, me,” Crowley murmured. He let his palms hover, just brushing over Aziraphale’s hair. Plenty of distance between Aziraphale’s skin and his own, really. His hair had been flattened by the unfortunate hat, and Crowley wanted to truly run his fingers through it, to mess it up even more, to grab at it and tug– 

No. Crowley moved instead to that horrible sash, letting Aziraphale raise his arms slowly so that Crowley could tug it off. Then the jacket, his fingers lingering on the coarse wool as he gently peeled it from Aziraphale’s shoulders. And then that ugly dark thing masquerading as a waistcoat: Crowley hated that, on his angel, the way it squared him off and made him look mass-produced. Aziraphale was meant to _glow,_ not to _blend._ Off it came, Crowley moving as delicately as he could, hearing Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat.

There was his angel, then, in the pale colors he liked best. He’d kept the lush linen shirt, along with the devastatingly posh layers of frill and lace at cuffs and wrist. Crowley carefully reached out, tugged the ruffles down over Aziraphale’s palm; he pressed a wet kiss to the bone just beneath Aziraphale’s thumb, feeling the texture of expensive, exquisite lace against his lips. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Thisss is nice,” Crowley murmured, pulling Aziraphale to his feet so that he could pace a full circle. He let his fingers touch as they wanted to, finally, tracing paths from Aziraphale’s shoulder all the way down his arm. He watched Aziraphale shudder, his eyes fluttering closed as Crowley moved to stand behind him. “Good quality fabric,” Crowley continued. He ran his palms up Aziraphale’s broad back, squeezing at the flesh beneath. Hell, the feel of Aziraphale filling his hands alone was enough to last him for years. He let his hands rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing at the lines of his muscles. 

“Like I said,” Aziraphale retorted, a bit unevenly. “I do have standards.”

Crowley bent just enough to press his mouth to the spot between Aziraphale’s shoulderblades, breathing into the fabric before mouthing at it. God - Satan - _Whomever_ , he wanted to taste that skin. His tongue flicked out, breathing in even more of Aziraphale’s scent. He was dizzy.

Aziraphale said nothing. His inhale was a ragged moan. 

Crowley closed his eyes. All he wanted to do now was tear this fine linen off of Aziraphale and press his teeth into the curve of his shoulder. He’d discorporate happily, surely, just knowing the give of an angel, the sound Aziraphale might make…

Instead he stood up and turned Aziraphale around. “You said you wanted to get rid of those trousers.”

“Did I?” Aziraphale asked, a bit wondering. Crowley dropped his hands to the waistband, intent on those flat buttons — and his fingers froze as he noticed the bulge beneath the fabric. 

Aziraphale coughed, very delicate. “I think it’s best if I handle this,” he said, gentle and soft and _devastating,_ not even a single ounce of sorry.

“Are you sure?” The question fell between them, acknowledged in a way they didn’t normally _do._ Crowley took his dark lenses off slowly, and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “I would,” he said, trying to make it mean all the things he couldn’t explain. _I’d risk it. It would be worth it, for you._

There was a long moment that spanned between them like a bridge: Aziraphale’s eyes, blown blackbird-blue and wanting, and yet that _infinite_ caution that stretched between them, as delicate as air and as solid as rock. 

“You would,” Aziraphale said, finally, his voice low and soft, like he was admitting defeat. “But oh, my dear boy, I couldn’t bear it.”

And that — fortunately; unfortunately — that was the one thing that was always able to stop Crowley where he didn’t want to be stopped. All the infernal imagination in the universe wasn’t worth one _ounce_ of Aziraphale’s voice when he said _please_ without saying it.

So Crowley bent to the clothing on the bed as Aziraphale deftly stripped off his own horrible _sans-culottes_. He handed Aziraphale his lovely pale stockings, and watched Aziraphale’s solid, sure hands tug them upwards into place. Angelic fingers were nothing like Crowley’s - thin, knobbly, a bit crooked at the last joint - and Crowley wanted to pull each fingertip into his own mouth, to taste them on his tongue and breathe in all the scents of where they’d been.

Instead, he picked up Aziraphale’s lovely breeches - a velvet blend, he guessed - and held them in place as Aziraphale did up the button placket over an area that seemed only a little swollen. Only then did Crowley trust himself to drop to his knees, to press his tentative and shaking palms around the back of Aziraphale’s calves, to gently slide them upwards against the grain of Aziraphale’s hair, a texture he couldn’t feel through the lush silk of the stockings. 

Even this was a test — and what wasn’t, between them, at this point? These stockings were as real as Crowley’s miracles were. Was that as real as fabric made by humans, for humans? He’d based his occult miracle after whatever Aziraphale had been wearing initially; were those angel-made, man-made, dream-made? At what point between them did a barrier stop being a barrier - of silk, of air, of inches - and cease to exist on this plane? Was it the rawness of themselves, their angelic-demonic poles, that canceled out every touch? Or was it the concentration of that essence into these human corporations that created the problem?

Crowley ran his palms down Aziraphale’s frankly decadent stockings until his hands rested around the angel’s ankles. Nothing happened. His hands tingled, but that was likely to say more about Crowley and Aziraphale than it was about their cosmic natures.

“Your shoes,” Crowley croaked, after what felt like another hundred centuries had passed. 

He let Aziraphale brace a hand on his shoulder as he slipped those feet into each shoe: cream-colored, a silk so ribbon-like Crowley could nearly see his reflection in each one, perfectly shaped and shined. A halo rarely shone as bright. Crowley slid both into place with a tenderness that could have been devastating, had he let it. 

He looked up at Aziraphale. His angel’s eyes were thousands of years away, and yet, they were closer than anything. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. It was almost a whisper, but Aziraphale wasn’t a coward: not in this thing between them. 

Crowely stood, and picked up that jacket from the bed, his fingers tucking into the complex gold brocade that ran from the shoulder seam down to the extravagant cuffs. “Last piece, angel,” he said. It was as simple as a curse and as solemn as a prayer.

Aziraphale turned around and let Crowley dress him into the coat from the back. Crowley let his hands linger as best they could, tugging the sleeves until they were aligned, letting his fingers trail over the expanse of the back and lightly detailing the texture of the intricate embroidery. In one bold move, Crowley stepped up until they were nearly touching, back to chest, and grasped his own hands together, loosely looped around Aziraphale’s neck: the most open and clumsy of embraces, and yet. And _yet_. 

They stood there, and Crowley imagined he could feel the way Aziraphale wanted to lean back into him, and then realized that imagining it was far worse.

Aziraphale cleared his throat at nearly the same time and Crowley wondered whether his train of thought had been similar. “I do have to,” he began, and Crowley found himself stumbling over vowels for the first time in hours. 

“You do not,” he insisted, but Aziraphale’s smile was wan and defeated, and Crowley suddenly had nothing left to offer.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and then he broke eye contact, tugging at the lace round his wrists to be sure it fell from his coat at a natural angle. “Your assistance is always…”

_Welcome,_ Crowley thought. _Invited. Assured. Begged. Adored, bequeathed, devoted and donated, offered like Communion—_

“Well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat again. “You should know that it’s noted, my dear boy.”

And Crowley would have to be content at that, because what choice did he have, otherwise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google searches for this particular chapter:  
> \- Aziraphale bastille outfit  
> \- crowley bastille outfit  
> \- mens clothing 18th century  
> \- paris hotel revolution  
> \- paris hotel revolution that isn't hotel de ville  
> \- popular crepe fillings  
> \- crepes  
> \- fabric 1700s  
> \- fabric 1800s  
> \- brocade  
> \- lace sleeves  
> \- buttons on waistcoat  
> \- silk stockings  
> \- mens stockings  
> \- pictures of men in stockings  
> \- david tennant stockings  
> \- sans-culottes  
> \- french revolution  
> \- guillotine  
> \- hotel de ville history  
> \- how to get out of wikipedia hole  
> \- french revolution fashion  
> \- dumb french hat
> 
> Enjoy!


	6. Remember Hamlet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has UPPED THE RATING of this fic into something explicit. If you would prefer not to read anything sexually explicit, I have provided a summary of important emotional beats in the story at endnotes. 
> 
> In the fic there is a skip button to the end if you'd like to read up until the explicit point as well.
> 
> Note: In the explicit part, Crowley and Aziraphale both have penises and Crowley is a woman using she/her pronouns.

Aziraphale's shop had been open for a year now, nearly to the day. A week early, technically, and more an anniversary of the commendation the angel had gotten rather than the grand opening itself. As the two of them were wont to do when they celebrated anything together, Crowley and Aziraphale were drinking, except here they were in home territory and wholly unbothered by anyone at all.

"Y'see," Aziraphale muttered, four cups of wine into their evening and just tipsy enough to be a little more indelicate in his words than he might be otherwise, which Crowley always found amusing. "It's about the lighting!"

"Carbon somethin' 'r other," Crowley sniffed, swirling the wine in her glass and staring at Aziraphale intently, having entirely forgotten her glasses were off and folded neatly on the table between them. A small thing fit only for holding a wine bottle or two, maybe an extra glass if they set one down to rest, and Crowley's sunglasses. Her very fashionable turban was off and thrown on the couch beside her, and her perfectly mussed curls were mussed even further by having torn off the "damned hat." 

"Yes, my dear!" Aziraphale held up a finger and concentrated on Crowley's face, his eyes softening at her sharp gaze on him, unflinching and intent. The moment stilled between them, and neither felt any particular urge to speak. It always seemed to happen like this, didn't it? Their words run out so comfortably it seemed they ought simply to fill the time with other pleasures that could be found in each other. 

"D'ya remember?" Crowley murmured softly, setting her glass on the little table, and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. Her legs spread as if she were still presenting as a man, uncaring of how it looked or how Aziraphale's gaze flicked down towards the movement. Or, perhaps she did care, and this was all a part of it. Aziraphale had always secretly held in his heart that she was nothing short of temptation incarnate.

"R'member what, m'darling?" Aziraphale blinked slowly and forced his eyes back to Crowley's face, lingering on the sharp red of her smile and then up further to meet her golden yellow eyes.

"Hamlet," she replied simply, and leaned back slowly now that she'd gotten his _full_ attention. She lay her arms on the back of the couch and _lounged_ quite indecently with her body bared in a way that could only make Aziraphale think of the presentation of feasts and meals. A pang of loss sounded somewhere in his chest even as he squirmed a little in his seat at the thought of putting his lips on her. Of trailing up her knees and thighs and partaking of her wholly.

It wasn't to be, of course; they couldn't touch on pain of Crowley's discorporation and subsequent, immediate sentencing to Hell. But he could dream, surely. Aziraphale's mouth watered, and he took a sip of his wine to dry it but never let his eyes wander from Crowley's, even as he licked the spilled drops from his lips. 

"Yes," he said hoarsely, "I do. What about it?"

"Mhmm," Crowley hummed, voice as rich chocolate and darkly thick as molasses. "No reason. Jus' wonderin'... Was thinkin' about it recently. 'Bout what I'd wanted to do to you…" Aziraphale knew a trap when he saw one, he knew that Crowley was setting him up for something, and that something had her wickedly delighted. But Crowley hadn't ever hurt him, he couldn't imagine her doing so, and if Aziraphale had a single flaw it was that he was a glutton. He'd _always_ want more of Crowley, he'd want to consume and subsume her until she was in every crevice of him and he could do everything he was made to do. Worship, protect, hold still and bask in her essence until they mixed so well not even God Herself could tell them apart.

"What you wanted to do to me?" Aziraphale asked tightly, forcing a cough to clear away his last thoughts, and feeling more and more sober by the second and wonderinged if he shouldn't be. 

"Oh yesss," Crowley hissed with all the seductiveness of Jezebel in her prime. Aziraphale supposed that made him Achab to fall for her wicked wiles, a king he'd never felt akin to except in this very moment. "I've thought about it lotsss. How your hair feelsss, how you would tassste, if that atmossspheric sssmell would _intensssify_ when you were overwhelmed with pleasssure…" 

Aziraphale swallowed heavily and shifted in his armchair, his chin tilting up as if he were trying desperately to look away but helplessly caught in Crowley's gaze. He felt all at once like he was being offered something he desperately wanted—if only he reached out to take it, to agree to take it, he had to do nothing but agree—and like he was hypnotized by snake eyes and about to be devoured. 

Absently he thought he might not disapprove of such an outcome. "Over– overwhelmed, you say?" His voice was quiet and low and ridiculously deep, as if he'd not spoken in years. 

[skip to summary]

* * *

Crowley's hands moved slowly from the back of the sofa to her shoulders, and the palms of her hands smoothed down her sides, lingering on the swell of her small, delicate breasts for just long enough to pull a breathy sigh out of her and then continue down to her hips until her fingers clutched at the top of her skirt. Aziraphale's breath hitched at her moan and then stopped entirely when the hem of her skirt lifted, little more than half an inch, but it was enough. 

"Overwhelmed," Crowley confirmed, barely more than a whisper, which Aziraphale had to lean forward and sit on the edge of his seat to hear. Often it was him who offered an opening, who pretended at innocence to allow Crowley to make her choice if she was willing to risk discoporation for a touch, for something that might cross the always-moving line, the limits found and pressed at until they knew without a doubt they existed there in a deep line in the sand. 

But this time, Crowley held him. With her words, her eyes, with every movement she made that enraptured and entranced him beyond all reason. He'd breathe her in and let her make her home in the cavern of his chest, he'd throw out his heart and his lungs and make room for her as best he knew how, if only she'd _touch_ him.

All at once, his breath caught back up to him, his mortal body screaming for air in the way it had become unconsciously accustomed to, and he gasped loudly, jerking back from where he began to tilt forward. Much too close to Crowley, much too dangerous. Crowley, for her part, only watched with an unreadable look on her face, though whatever she was feeling must have been intense from the way she looked at him, like she could see the truth of his form beneath the mortal shell that held him here. As if she'd like nothing more than to slither up his legs and contort herself through his wings and wrap herself around his body until there was no atomic space between them.

"Is that alright?" Crowley asked, breathily, her voice just as quiet and low and strained as his was. "Can I– would you let me?"

"Anything," Aziraphale said immediately, the word out of his mouth before he could even think of it. Tomorrow he'd think of all the men that promised things to their lovers in the heat of it and could not rescind those offers in the morning light The heat in his body and the noticeable feel of the blood draining from his head, downward, would make him understand them all very well. 

"Then watch. And hear me," Crowley murmured, her fingers walking along her skirt as she drew it up and crumpled it under her palms. Inch by slow inch in softly jerking steps, the fabric rose above Crowley's ankles and then her shins and then knees and– Aziraphale breathed in a shaky breath at the revelation of her thighs. There was nothing between Crowley and Aziraphale's gaze, and he hadn't seen her so uncovered since, well Ever. A fire pooled in his gut in the basin of his hips, and Aziraphale licked his lips once more at the thought of everything he wished he could do for her on his knees.

But she bade him watch, so he did. She spoke to him, so he listened. 

"Bloody _fuck_ , angel," she groaned as she pulled her skirts all the way up to her waist, baring the vallies of her hips fully, skin taught over her hips and her belly surprisingly soft compared to the length of her rapidly filling cock. Her hands skittered down her sides once more, and he thought she'd touch herself, but she bypassed her sex to lazily drift her fingertips over the inside of her thighs, which parted for his pleasure. 

"Do you know how good you look in hose?" she groaned, and Aziraphale gripped at the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white at the shiver of her thighs as she touched herself like Aziraphale wished he could touch her. 

"Crowley–" he groaned, only to be cut off with a hiss from the demon.

"I sssaid lisssten, didn't I?" Crowley gave him no time to respond before continuing. "The curve of your calf, I wanted to place my hands on you, hope the silk of them was thick enough to keep me there and thin enough to make you feel the heat of me. And the way you _looked_ at me when you came back from Scotland for those jobs, oh I thought about all the wicked ways I'd like to have you."

Aziraphale breathed heavily, and his fingers twitched at the upholstery until it nearly ripped. Crowley's fingers ghosted slowly towards her cock, and her hips rolled up to her own hand; she looked utterly debauched, entirely _starving_ for pleasure, and Aziraphale desperately wished it was his touch that had done it. 

"I'd have risked it," Crowley continued, her head falling back to the couch and showcasing the delicate, lovely lines of her neck. Aziraphale thought the perfect column of it ought to be like marble—with soft, dark bruises dappled along it. Ideally placed there by his mouth. 

The fabric of his chair ripped, and Crowley gasped, hips bucking as she looked up at him with an expression of shock about her. She paused and looked at him for a long moment before swallowing and nodding at him. 

"Come on then, join me," Crowley said throatily, as if it were something they did every day. As if this were something normal to them and not a lust-drunk decision soaked in wine. Aziraphale's hands were on his trousers, fingers flicking open buttons with practiced ease before he even thought about resisting her command. Perhaps it was for the better, since it gave him no time to overthink anything at all, let alone how hungrily she watched the flex of his fingers and the shifting of his hips as he pushed pants and trousers down to reveal his thighs.

"Fuck, angel," she groaned, her mouth parting just enough for Aziraphale to make out the flat of her tongue beneath plush lips and the flash of fangtip as she bit at them with a sigh. For one wild, irrational moment he was jealous of it, of her own teeth that had the freedom to sink into her flesh with no worry of sending her away. The feeling sunk down deep into the core of him and wrapped itself around his inner being; another layer, another facet of who he was.

"Oh I wanted to ruin you, bury myself in you and have you wrapped around me. It would have been worth it, you know, a trip to Hell for a chance at paradise." Crowley moaned, and her eyes fluttered closed at the thought before snapping open again. She wrapped her hand around the base of her cock and stifled a shout with her teeth in her lip, her other hand curved like a claw into her thigh and surely leaving bruises. 

"Touch yourssself, angel, let me sssee. I want to sssee you," she hissed, eyes wild and pupils so dark they looked like whirlpool voids in crucibles of molten gold. Aziraphale started the same way she had, fingertips on his thighs raising goosebumps over his skin—simultaneously cold and too hot—and then up and up along his sack and to his cock. The moan punched out of his chest at the too-light touch of fingertips up the length of himself, from base to tip then back down again to wrap around. Crowley's breath became decidedly more ragged as well.

"Aziraphale," she breathed, and he had to swallow once more to keep himself in check and wait for her to move, for her to say something, _anything_.

" _Bless it_ , angel," Crowley cursed, rolling her hips up and fucking into her fist once, twice, and then seemed to bring herself under control again. Aziraphale followed suit. "I dreamt a lot of things, of all those _infinite varieties_ I would have you if we could, that I wanted you in. Thought so long on it I could nearly conjure up a waking dream and imagine you so fully it was like you were touching me anyway. You did it like this, in my dreams of you. Slow and _torturousss_ …" She elongated the word like a prayer, and Aziraphale longed for nothing more than to fall at her feet and answer it.

"You were slow and took me apart 'till I cried, 'till I promised no one but you, 'till I forgot all language except for the refrains of your name and cried _holy, holy, holy, is my angel on high_ ," Crowley stroked herself just like she said, hitching breath and slow hand. She reached up with her other hand and tugged at her dress until her breast was exposed, and she cupped it in the flat of her palm for only a moment, and then pinched at sensitive flesh and rolled her thumb over her nipple until she squirmed in her seat and her back arched into her own touch.

"Crowley, oh, _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale breathed, a prayer of his own, her name on his lips like the sweetest honey, and he could only _imagine_ she'd taste even better.

"Thought about so many loopholes, what I could do to you through barriers of cloth. How I might drive you to distraction the way you did me, would you like that? Just like this? Just like in France, but _more_. I could tell you how to touch yourself, I could wear gloves up to my elbows and nothing else and wrap my hand around yours until you came apart beside me. 

"Would you like that? Would you like it if I fucked someone between us?" Crowley asked, eyes hazy like a lantern through the fog, bright and dissipated through the lust. Aziraphale moaned in reply and slurred a _god, yes, if it's you_ , and Crowley choked back a moan of her own, bucking up into her hand again like she hadn't expected him to want it too.

"I thought about inviting that Hamlet of yours to mine and let you come in on us. Fuck him between us so every time I moved you'd feel it too." Crowley's voice was undeniably husky and sounded like… sex. Aziraphale hadn't ever wanted this, not with anyone else, not really. He'd never felt fire racing through his veins and the urge to have something hot and hard in his mouth, hand never wanted to sit and worship between the legs of anyone at all if it wasn't Crowley. 

His own breathing was ragged, and he couldn't help but think the slick squelch and slide of sticky, messy, wet skin over skin was anything but utterly erotic. The way Crowley looked at him felt like he thought Falling might, fire and brimstone and everything scraped out of him and the room spinning because he hadn't any room to think even in his own head; except this, he was sure, was much more enjoyable. This, he was sure, was right and good and whatever pleasure they could have of one another without sending Crowley to the depths of Hell was so worth it. 

Aziraphale moaned and forgot he could blink, or that he ought to, or maybe he so desperately didn't want to look away from Crowley's eyes, from the way her face moved and her teeth bit into her lower lip like the curved blush of a pear, rich and ripe for the taking. He was on the edge of his seat, every wanton moan from Crowley edging him forward as he chased his pleasure, chanting softly under his breath, _"Please, please, please Crowley, I need it, please, Crowley, I need you– please,"_ until the back of his throat felt raw with the urgency of it.

Finally, _finally_ —even if it hadn't been that long at all since they began to touch themselves for the view of the other, hoping to convey _anything_ of their devotion physically—Crowley spilled over her hand with a loud moan that was nearly a scream, sounding so much like _angel!_ that Aziraphale was incapable of doing anything but following her lead. He shouted and came hard, his fist coated in his spend and dripping from his fingers, and he wasn't sure his vision hadn't been stolen from him for a moment due to the ecstasy of it.

Aziraphale opened his eyes slowly and breathed heavily, panting to catch air in his lungs and inflate them again and again, no matter that he didn't need to, no matter that the smell of them combined and perfumed his breaths as they imprinted themselves on his lungs. Bright yellow eyes shone before him, and whatever breath he had was stolen from him, his lips parted and the urge to just _lean forward_ and complete the… the something, to make it final, to make it all come together and tie a knot in the string wrapped around brown paper packages.

Crowley's eyes flicked down to Aziraphale’s lips where his tongue was wetting them, and she swayed forward. Aziraphale nearly did the same before realizing with a frightened gasp what ruin they were racing towards. He threw himself back with a gusto and upended his chair. 

Aziraphale hit the floor with a grown and sighed loudly. With a wave of his own magic he was cleaned and tucked back into his trousers, and he rolled off the chair in order to scramble to stand. Crowley was dressed again as well, hat and everything, clean and like nothing at all had happened between them, like the heat and the lighting between them hadn't been anything at all… and for some reason, though Aziraphale _knew_ why that was, it hurt. 

It hurt more to see the same reflected in her eyes.

"Crow–" he began, but she raised a hand and drew herself to stand as well. She smiled wanly and hooked a parasol that Aziraphale hadn't noticed before around the crook of her arm.

"I think," she began, "it would be best I leave, angel… wouldn't want to do anything _untoward_ after all."

"Crowley, _please_ , I–" The words caught in Aziraphale's throat as the little bell above his door rang and the cool air from outside rushed in, leaving him cold and bereft in her wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary [return to text]
> 
> In essence, Aziraphale is tempted (lower-case t) by Crowley. They masturbate on opposite seats (Aziraphale in his armchair and Crowley on the couch) while Crowley talks somewhat dirty about the things she'd like to do or how she'd like to touch Aziraphale. 
> 
> Nearing the end they both lean forward and, upon realizing how close they are, Aziraphale upends his chair after flinging himself backward to keep from touching Crowley. Crowley puts herself to rights and makes a hurried exit, indicating she's leaving because she believes Aziraphale has rejected her in some way rather than being worried for her safety.


	7. Fans and Pomander Parfum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter with art! By the lovely smolalienbee!

"Of course, Lady Tinley!" Crowley tittered and gently wafted her fan back and forth between the two of them, creating a lazy breeze. It was a balmy day today, at least so much as England got balmy nearing the Autumn months, and Lady Tinley was hosting a party. For tea, of course, with all sorts of decadent desserts and _exotic_ teas where surely even someone like Crowley could be tempted into indulging in some fancy. The particular phrasing of the invitation was enough to catch Crowley's intrigue, so here she was, playing friend with a wealthy, bored woman who'd already been in her reports for greed and avarice and envy.

Lord Tinley was, of course, a somewhat middle-to-higher ranking member in the East India Trading Company, with positions passed down from father to son and all the way down the Tinley line. Crowley, of course, was immorally obliged to like them because of it. (Privately though, she found the entire Tinley family vapid and self-centered to a degree she was honestly appalled at, and it certainly didn't help that the Lady kept trying to pair off her equally vapid son with Crowley to get into what _must_ be vast amounts of wealth considering Crowley's dresses and carriages and the lie which changed every season and on a whim.)

"Oh, my dear!" Lady Tinley stood suddenly and pulled Crowley with her, smiling her too-bright smile that grated on Crowley's last nerve, like waking up to a sliver of sunlight through the curtain in the early morning right into the eyes, but went with her willingly enough. "Have you met my dear friend, Lady Fell?!"

Crowley nearly tripped over her own feet and shot up to stand a bit taller, keeping pace now rather than letting Lady Tinley drag her along as she liked. A demon ought to look dignified. For temptations. Of course.

"F– Fell?" Crowley squawked, before catching herself with a well-mannered clearing of her throat and glanced about the room in order to find her ~~lovely~~ foul nemesis. 

"Oh yes!" Lady Tinley smiled, far too ecstatic about introducing them for anything good to come of it, and waved her hand towards the door in which Aziraphale stood. Beautiful, was Crowley's first thought; her second was a fond realization that Aziraphale's clothing was out of date but in a charmingly, eccentrically rich way rather than any faux pas she'd have to save her angel from. Social suicide was nearly as bad as discorporation, in this day and age at least. 

"Oh, Azira," Lady Tinley greeted with a trill at an uncouth volume that had a few of the newer spring chickens to the Season tittering behind their fans, "My darling dear, you simply _must_ let me introduce you to the companion I wrote to you about!"

"The very same you kept the name of hidden, dear Jane?" Aziraphale smiled softly and stepped back to allow Lady Tinley and Crowley into the small circle of women she was speaking with previously. 

Crowley caught the exact moment Aziraphale realized who'd been drug over, the way her eyes widened and her fan opened with a fabric-dampened clack to cover her lips and chin. Crowley would have bet _anything_ that she was hiding a smile with the way the twinkle in her eyes danced in mirth at how Crowley was being manhandled… er, womanhandled. Demonhandled?

"Ah, I can see why you might," Aziraphale continued, barely missing a beat and making a show of looking Crowley up and down. "Perhaps you're right. I would hate to have been jealous of your friendship with a new widow.”

Lady Tinley gasped the gasp of one delightedly outraged and smacked Aziraphale's shoulder so lightly with her fan it barely made a dent in Aziraphale's lovely, poofy sleeves. Crowley's own lips turned to a small smile and she tapped her chin with a closed fan of her own. This game, their banter, the things they said upon 'first introductions' from mutual acquaintances were old hat and something Crowley dearly loved. If she couldn't be touched, if she couldn't encircle the angel in her arms she could, at least, keep this in her heart clutched close the way she wished she could with Aziraphale.

"I am so very sorry, Lady Fell," Crowley drawled, smirk on her lips pulling up on both sides so much it might be mistaken for a smile, "But I am not a widow, you must be mistaken."

"I suppose I am; please forgive me, Cr– er…" Aziraphale paused and hummed, making it clear she'd not been _actually_ introduced and Crowley had to fight back a snort of laughter at how well Aziraphale took to the back-handed, biting _implications_ of noble gossip and etiquette. She'd almost be proud if not for how much it was clear it suited her bastard of an angel from the get go. 

"Forgive me," Aziraphale repeated, primly. "But you do wear so much dreariness, even the reds are so dark they might be mirages of color, it simply seemed the most likely recourse to be in mourning."

A gasp sounded from one of Aziraphale's previous companions and Lady Tinley giggled nervously. Crowley tamped down on her smile and turned it to something _proper_ , and a mask of clear disdain. "Oh, truly? How… forward of you, Miss Fell."

The tension was palpable and if Crowley had a knife she wasn't even sure it would cut it, the ladies on either side of them (and especially Lady Tinley in between herself and Aziraphale) seemed to hold their breath at what they must have believed to be a new feud cropping up from nothing, sartorial choices perhaps. 

"I assure you, _my dear_ ," Aziraphale murmured and fluttered her lashes at Crowley, Aziraphale raked her eyes up Crowley's body so slowly Crowley thought she might discorporate from it, "I've never been uncouthly forward a day in my life."

"No," Crowley replied slowly, letting her words linger between all them and caring not for how the women around them must have thought it was from ire rather than a desire to see how Aziraphale's eyes sparked brightly behind her eyelashes for longer as she spoke. "And certainly not with your own _sartor_. I'd have fired any maid who hadn't protested dressing me so unfashionably."

"Do you think, perhaps, my dear, that she hadn't?"

"No? Well, perhaps you ought to listen to those who clearly know better than yourself."

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up and the way she pursed her lips in an attempt not to smile must have read as honestly upset about Crowley's return to Lady Tinley, as she stepped in at that moment with a nervous laugh. Grasping Crowley's arm, sharp nails digging into the soft crook of her elbow, Lady Tinley pulled her away with a forced laugh. 

A few hours later, after a quick scolding from Lady Tinley about getting along with a dear friend of hers, Crowley was _finally_ left to her own devices. And so, of course, she roamed. There was all sorts of mischief to get up to when given free rein of wandering in someone else's home. Mostly Crowley just liked to move things around; people who couldn't tell what was _wrong_ in someplace that they were meant to find familiar tended to lash out and create all sorts of little waves of malcontent and wrath. Plus it was funny. 

Turning the corner of a hallway and into a small library of a study, Crowley began to poke around, chuckling to herself all the while.

"Crowley, dear," Aziraphale's voice intoned sternly from behind her, making Crowley pivot on her heel so suddenly that she lost her balance just enough to need to lean back against the sturdy desk. 

"Y– yeah, angel?" Crowley stuttered, surprised at being snuck up on. 

"Just _what_ are you doing here, with Jane?" Aziraphale asked, all the while her fan out and very slowly, gently, wafting the air around her even as she took small, steady steps forward.

Crowley swallowed the frog in her throat before answering, "Not my fault she dragged me here."

"I'm inclined to disagree," Aziraphale returned sharply, "You clearly aren't enamored of her, she's no great bosom friend of yours like Leonardo was. So I'll ask again, is she an assignment of yours?"

"Nnghyea-no." Crowley stumbled around the vowels, "She's not."

Aziraphale shot her an unamused look and Crowley hastened to tack on, "Her cousin is!"

"Lord Tinley?"

"No, Lady Tinley… Jane's cousin-in-law. Layin' groundwork." 

At that Aziraphale brightened visibly, near lighting up the room with a glow of satisfaction that could only come of schadenfreude aimed at a person one _genuinely_ disliked. "Oh, _her,_ that's alright then."

Crowley made a low noise of confusion and then another more urgent sort of noise upon realizing how close Aziraphale had stepped, the hems of their dresses brushing. So close Crowley couldn't help but imagine that the heat of Aziraphale's thighs were bleeding through her dress and Crowley's and they might be touching skin to skin. 

"It is?" Crowley squeaked, surprised Aziraphale had sought her out at all, and on top of that moved in so close in a place that may as well have been _public_. 

"It is." Aziraphale murmured, smiling. The smell of her perfume, something new and spiced and floral like orange pomanders and rose petals, filled Crowley's senses until she was drunk with it, swaying slightly. She'd never been so aware of how close Aziraphale was; that was probably a lie, but she couldn't help but think of how Aziraphale had lunged away from her not too long ago and grow drunker on the heady scent and imagined heat.

Crowley's eyes slid shut and her mouth parted just enough to inhale deeply, drowning in the closeness. 

Suddenly, there was fabric on her lips, then a delicate pressure. A soft sigh from Aziraphale, forlorn and _yearning_ so hard even Crowley's demonic radar picked up on it as desire (even as nonsexual as it was). Crowley's eyes flew open just in time to see Aziraphale's face pulling back from her own, Aziraphale's fan pressed firm against Crowley's mouth.

In her shock Crowley couldn't move, it all felt like… penance, maybe. Like an apology, well meant and proof of how sorry Aziraphale had been for their last encounter where they'd been alone and wanting. Aziraphale's delicately gloved fingers traced down one of Crowley's arms from elbow to wrist and encircled it gently. She drew Crowley's hand up until she was holding Aziraphale's fan and Aziraphale could let go without it falling. 

"There we are, dear." The angel murmured sotto voce. 

"We are?" Crowley croaked, and Aziraphale simply smiled softly, a little melancholy but a smile nonetheless, and turned to the door.

Looking over her shoulder Aziraphale replied, "Yes, we are, love."

Crowley breathed in deeply the pomander parfum that lingered in the fabric of the fan and closed her eyes once more to enjoy the token Aziraphale had left with her even as the door clicked shut.

It took a few minutes to realize—and Crowley had to sit down when she noticed—that Aziraphale's kiss left a perfect mark of soft, pink lip stain on the cream of the fan's fabric, just there in between spokes of abalone boning. Only an inch from the top of it, right in the middle of the fan on what might be considered the 'back' side of it, the side which was meant to face the bearer when open. 

A secret, perhaps, but one Crowley would cherish. It was _their_ secret, one of bravery and love and adoration, one Crowley couldn't help but feel a tugging in her heart about whenever she thought on it. 


End file.
